


Fantasy Fulfilled

by portraitofemmy



Series: Hedges, Bitch [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Dom/sub Play, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Exhibitionism, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hedge Witch Eliot Waugh, Hedge Witch Quentin Coldwater, Kink Negotiation, Light daddy kink, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Voyeurism, informed consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 21:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21482830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: During the lead up to the battle with Reynard, Eliot suggested a scene which Quentin hasn't been able to stop thinking about. Here, they fulfill the fantasy.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waught + Margo Hanson
Series: Hedges, Bitch [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1444975
Comments: 29
Kudos: 235





	Fantasy Fulfilled

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last of the itches I had to scratch in this verse, so I'll be marking the series as complete now. There's always the chance I might come back to it, but this is the last one I had planned to write since the beginning. I hope you enjoy it, it is truly just.... filth, delightful filth.
> 
> Thanks as always to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) without whom I am not a coherent person.

"Tell me what's getting you off about this idea," Eliot murmurs into the back Quentin's neck, the night before they’re set to play out the scene. Palm flat against Quentin’s soft belly under his rucked up tshirt, Eliot can’t stop touching him even now as they’re supposed to be falling asleep. The false quiet of New York City spills around them, but there’s safety and comfort behind the wards of Eliot’s loft. Quentin’s skin is like a drug, and Jesus, wouldn’t Eliot know?

“What’da you mean?” Quentin mumbles, half asleep, and Eliot draws him closer until he's tucked entirely into the curve of Eliot’s body, back to chest, ass to hips, legs spooned together. 

“There’s a couple ways we could play it,” Eliot says patiently, rubbing a soothing little circle with his palm that makes Quentin squirm just a little, wriggling in Eliot's arms. “Do you want Margo to acknowledge that she knows you’re there, or is the fun in pretending that she doesn’t?”

“I don’t– I don’t know? Whatever you think– or want–?” Quentin stutters, shrinking a little with a hunch in his shoulders. Well, that’s not what Eliot was going for at all. The last thing he's trying to do is get Quentin’s guard up, especially when he’d been so relaxed and calm before, loose and pliant from good sex and better aftercare. 

Eliot noses into the soft hair on the back of Quentin’s head, still short but growing. Quentin’s hunched tight, uncomfortable, and instinct screams to fix it, to settle him. Almost like it’s an afterthought, Eliot smooths his hand down the thin trail of hair under Quentin’s stomach, slides it into his sleep pants to cup his soft cock and balls. It’s a gentle, claiming touch; not trying to get him hard, just holding him. Secure. Quentin relaxes almost immediately. “My good little witch,” Eliot purrs, kissing the thin skin behind Quentin’s ear. “We could play into the fact that she knows, show off how good you are for me. Or you could just be there all warm and wet and sweet and she doesn’t get to know anything about it, all for me. Both are so hot, sweetheart, but I want to give you what _you _want.”

Quentin’s quiet for a moment, but it’s a thoughtful silence, not an uncomfortable one. Eliot just keeps holding him patiently, rubbing his fingertips lightly through the rough hair at the base of Quentin’s cock. Eventually, when he speaks, Eliot stops playing to pay attention. “I don’t think it really matters to me, either way. I don’t think it’s. In my brain, I don’t think it’s about me. I’m– I’m something good, keeping you–warm, like you said? And I can check out, because it’s not about me. If she notices or if she doesn’t, it’s like– if she notices a new sweater or something?”

“Bambi always notices new clothes,” Eliot teases, and he can practically _feel_ Quentin roll his eyes. He kisses the point of his shoulder in response, and feels the tension in Quentin’s shoulders ratchet down another couple of degrees. “No, I understand. You’re not the focus of it, one way or the other, so it doesn’t really matter if she acknowledges you as long as it’s in passing. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, unspooling all the way back into Eliot’s body. Eliot kisses his cheek, and slides his hand back up to rest on Quentin’s stomach again.

“Thank you for explaining.” 

Quentin's laugh is breathless, a little embarrassed, but he's _so good _and _so brave_ about this, asking for what he wants. "Thank you for doing it."

"Mmm, it's such a hardship," Eliot agrees, lightly sarcastic, as he settles his head back down onto the pillow for sleep. "Nothing appealing at all to me about having my dick in your pretty mouth for an hour."

"No but I mean... with Margo." Quentin's voice is awkward, and Eliot's beginning to think he should have waited to have this conversation until morning, if it means Quentin’s brain is going to be spinning too much to sleep. 

"Margo and I have sexual history going back to grad school, baby," Eliot says gently, tracing his fingers lightly across the skin of Quentin's arm, fuzzy and sturdy, stronger than you’d think. "It's kind of fallen by the wayside in recent years mostly due to... Well, sobriety. But she's had my cock in her mouth, the idea of someone else doing it nearby is not going to change our relationship at all."

"Is it weird that I'd kinda like to see that?" Quentin ask, rolling in Eliot's arms to bury his face in Eliot's chest. "Except, you know... she's terrifying."

"She's– well, I was going to say she's all bark and no bite but that's just categorically untrue," Eliot says with a laugh, reaching up to slide his fingers into Quentin hair, coax him up to meet his eyes. "Bambi's my girl, she's always going to be that for me. But I don't think... I'm not sure I'm at the place anymore where I could let her be more than an observer during sex. I'm sorry, sweetheart, if that's a thing you want. I don't think I can give it to you."

"No, don't apologize, please," Quentin rushes to say, and his earnest fucking eyes are going be the _death _of Eliot, Jesus. "You're _everything _I could have asked for in a partner– _more_. You give me– things I don't even know to ask for. All I meant was. When I'm– doing that for you, going down on you? I just. I lose the ability to keep track of what's going on so fast. It'd just be hot to see what you look like, when I could actually watch it."

He sounds chagrined, so Eliot doesn't laugh, but it's _true_, his sweet boy checks out the moment you get something on his tongue. "There's other ways we could accomplish that," Eliot says wryly, nosing in to steal a kiss. God, he loves this man. "Video recording springs immediately to mind."

"I don't think– I think having to see myself would ruin it," Quentin cuts in, unhappy twist to his mouth, and Eliot has to force himself to remember that Quentin doesn't see himself the way Eliot sees him. 

"Okay," Eliot promises, soothing, giving as much comfort as he's able with touches and kisses. "We don't have to negotiating for something not even related to our scene tomorrow. I just wanted to know how you pictured Margo integrating into it. Now I know."

Quentin nods, cuddling in close. "I'm excited," he whispers, like an admission and Eliot grins. He kind of is too. 

__

Eliot and Margo have a meeting planned for 8pm the next evening.

It’s a little late, if this were actually a work meeting, but Eliot’s got an actual job that requires him to actually teach magic to his witches, and deal with other covens, and deal with the bullshit with the Library, and deal with Julia’s magical drama, and deal with– 

Lots of things. 

So. Unfortunately, sex games have to happen after work hours. Even if the sex game kind of involves work. 

The hours between five and seven are the busiest in the safehouse, all the cantrip witches who have muggle jobs filtering in to get their couple hours of magical learning in before disappearing back to their lives. Eliot spends 40 minutes teaching shield spells in the basement, gets a little battered around by Penny as part of the teaching (motherfucker is _good_ at missiles. Worse than Kady, but Eliot’s doesn’t have an active death wish anymore, so he’s _not_ going to spar with Kady). Then he spends another 40 minutes supervising Mei’s healing lesson on all of the battle magic bumps and bruises. After that, it’s check-ins with smaller projects, or helping individual people with their specific questions, correcting form on tuts and checking circumstances. 

There’s a research project going on in the library, which has consumed Quentin and Alice and a handful of others, including apparently a couple of interlopers from Harriet’s coven. There’s two chalkboards involved, covered in calculations of some kind of astrophysics, which is probably why they reached outside the coven. Eliot sticks his head into the room just long enough to confirm that they’re still in the preliminary stages and he probably doesn’t need to get involved yet, and catches Quentin’s eye. 

Q turns red _immediately_, which is just delightful, but he also gives Eliot a pleased little smile. Eliot winks back and leaves him be, heading up the stairs to his office fully confident that Quentin will follow once he’s at a good stopping place.

He’s got just long enough to settle himself, shake his brain out of the actual teacher headspace and back into what he needs to be for Quentin, before the door to his office is clicking open and Quentin’s slipping through. Eliot can practically feel the nerves and anticipation vibrating off of him, even from the other side of the room, and it has a strangely settling affect. It’s a lot easier to remember what he’s supposed to be to Quentin when Quentin’s actually there.

“Hey, little one,” he greets, settled comfortably into the chair behind his desk, and Q’s smile is just– just a little shy. It’s a play-act, Eliot knows it is, but that’s _fine_, it’s more than fine. It’s never stopped feeling so special, that Quentin will give him this.

“Hi,” Q replies, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, rocking on the balls of his feet. “So um– how do we– should I just–? What do you want me to do?”

Eliot relaxes back into the chair, letting himself sprawl a little, playing up the casual kind of power that comes from being on the other side of a desk. “I want you to come here and kiss me,” he says easily, because there’s no point in doing this if they can’t be themselves during it. 

Quentin’s posture loosens as he crosses the room, taking Eliot’s hand when he stretches it out and letting himself be pulled into Eliot’s lap. “Hi,” he says again, as his weight settles onto Eliot’s thighs, and it's warmer and gentler, a private greeting. He sighs happily as Eliot cups his neck and tugs him in for a kiss. It’s sweet and soft, a _hello_ more than anything deeper, but still electric. The reestablishing of a current between them.

“There’s my little one,” Eliot murmurs, nuzzling his face against Quentin’s just to feel him giggle against his lips, feel his own scruff drag against Quentin's 5 o'clock shadow. “Right? You’re mine?”

“_Yes_,” Quentin sighs, happy, fingers stumbling on the panels of Eliot’s vest, touching his tie, his shirt. Eliot’s as buttoned up as he can make himself, only forgoing a jacket because he knows he’s going to be sweating soon and there’s no point baking himself alive. But part of the appeal of this is Eliot being put together, as much as Quentin might enjoy him a little rumpled at other times.

“Good boy,” Eliot coos, which gets him an eyeroll. Okay, not quite there yet. That’s fine. He cups Quentin’s waist in his palms, holding him steady for another kiss. And another. Gods above, Eliot could kiss him for an hour and never get bored. Has.

Quentin mouth is pink with kisses when he pulls back, and Eliot can't help but reach up and touch it, brush his fingers against that pretty bow.

"Know what else I want?" Eliot purrs, and it doesn't feel like an act anymore at all when Quentin shakes his head. "I want you to keep me warm while I get the rest of my work done. Think you can do that for me, little witch?" 

"Yes," Quentin breathes, and he's flushing with excitement, pupils blown wide. 

Eliot barely had to nudge him at all before he's sliding down onto his knees on the floor, settling between Eliot's thighs under the desk. It's an achingly familiar sight. Blowing Eliot at his desk is one of Quentin's favorite things to do, had been one of the _first _things they'd ever shared. There's a new tinge of excitement to it now, though.

Eliot leans back, resting his elbows lightly on the arms of his chair, feeling on-display and hot with it. "Undo my belt," he instructs lightly, and focuses all his energy on trying not to get hard as Quentin does just that. He stops once the task is done, hands flat on Eliot's thighs, blinking up at him awaiting further instructions. Eliot hums happily, takes a minute just to touch Quentin, pet his hair, cup his cheeks, affection as reward listening carefully. "Good. Take me out now, little one."

Quentin does as he’s told and no more, opening the panel of Eliot’s trousers and sliding his cock free. He waits, swallowing in anticipation, for Eliot to cup the back of his head and guide him forward, take it into his mouth on Eliot’s command.

The wetness and heat of Quentin’s mouth are blindingly good, and Eliot has to take a moment to center himself, braced on the arms of the chair and eyes closed. The temptation is there, as he starts to get hard despite himself, to just throw the whole thing out the window. It would be so easy to just... fit his cock into Quentin’s throat again and again until he gets off, bright sweet pleasure sparkling through his nerves. Quentin would probably even let him, but it wouldn’t be good in the way this has the potential to be good, if Eliot can just get ahold of himself.

Well, the first step in that is probably to stop thinking about coming in Quentin’s mouth. 

Staring blankly at the papers on his desk, Eliot makes himself let go of that hunger, the want to chase that feeling. It’s a particular exercise in self-control, telling his body _not_ to get hard when it wants too desperately, but Eliot’s pretty good at self-control these days. Four years of sobriety have given him plenty of chances to practice. Quentin makes a contented little sound, just audible under the desk, when Eliot finally does go soft. His nose is brushing against the skin of Eliot’s pelvis, a weirdly tender sensation, and Eliot reaches down to pet his hair carefully, gently: more praise for waiting it out while Eliot got himself under control. 

Staring at the top of the desk, Eliot wishes he could _see_. That’s so not the point of this, but maybe some time, at home, Eliot can get Q relaxed and pliant between his legs while Eliot reads or _something_, so he can _see_– 

There’s a sharp rap on the door, and Eliot startles a little, almost jerks himself right out of Quentin’s mouth, might have if his hand wasn’t still buried in Quentin’s hair. He gives a gentle scrape of his fingers against Quentin’s scalp and retrieves his hand, calling out, “Come in, Bambi.”

Margo’s grinning like a predator the moment she opens the door, all sharp teeth and knowing eyes. She’d been happily agreeable when he’d asked her to be a part of this, teasing him about the good old days of sharing boys between them. It was maybe a little unbalanced this time, since she’s not getting much out of this, but he’ll take it as a favor owed. Next time she’s in need of a voyeur, he’ll turn up for her no matter how many pussies are involved.

“You need to stop working so late, El,” Margo teases, heels clicking briskly against the wooden floor of his office. Fuck, that floor is going to be _murder_ Quentin’s knees. Eliot wonders if he should have gotten him a cushion, absently, while Margo makes herself comfortable in the chair on the other side of the desk. 

It’s possible comfort is not exactly the point of this. Eliot can’t fucking _think_, the whole thing is so– It’s so much. Margo raises an eyebrow at him and he realizes he just. Didn’t answer her. “Yeah, I–” he starts, strangled, then clears his throat. _Get it together, Waugh_. Tugging his vest straight, Eliot tries to pull his brain together. “You know me. If I’m working, I’m not doing other things I shouldn’t be doing.”

Margo hums, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I’m sure you’re _doing things_ just fine.”

He shoots a glare at her, _behave_, and she holds up her hands in mock surrender. Then she’s reaching into her bag for some maps and papers, and fuck, Eliot’s supposed to _work_. He’s supposed to make decisions, somehow, hold a conversation when Quentin’s tongue is rubbing gently at the underside of his cock every time Q swallows. He’s supposed to think about something _other_ than how fucking hot it is, how much control Quentin just hands over, his _trust_, his _love_, sweet little witch–

“So I’m thinking I might head to Japan next,” Margo says, and Eliot nods helplessly. Fuck, it’s Margo, thank god it’s Margo, he can– he can let her take the lead on this part. If he has Quentin’s trust in this, he can give his own to Margo. She’ll keep them all on track.

He does actually manage to get his brain in shape, after a couple minutes. At the 15 minute mark, Quentin gets a little fidgety, squirming a little between Eliot’s legs under the desk. It’s probably discomfort catching up with him, the angle of his neck, the strain of the floor on his knees. Experience tells Eliot that if Quentin can push through this, he’ll slide down deeper in his own mind, deep enough to stop experiencing discomfort at all. Still, it’s a tense couple of minutes, Eliot’s eyes fixed on the clock over Margo’s shoulder, tracking how long it takes for Q to settle. If he doesn’t soon, he’s not going to, and Eliot will need to call the whole thing off.

He does. He goes soft and pliant again, head half-resting on Eliot’s inner thigh, nose still tucked up against Eliot’s pelvis. Fuck. Eliot wants to _see_ him. 

"You alright there, El?" Margo asks, her bright red lips quirked in an amused half smile. Fuck, he loves her and hates her in equal measure, his best scene partner, his favorite girl. "You're looking a little flushed."

Reaching a hand down under the desk, Eliot cups the vulnerable stretch of the underside of Quentin's jaw in his palm. His good little witch, tucked up tight between his legs, Eliot's going to lose his _mind_ at the heat, the sweetness of it. "I'm good, Bambi," he sighs, rubbing his thumb into the tender skin under the hinge of Quentin's jaw. "Just nice and warm."

He can feel rather than hear Quentin’s moan, the subtle vibrations of it against his palm, around his cock. Rubbing his thumb into the hinge of Quentin’s jaw, Eliot catches Margo’s eye over the desk. God he can only imagine what his own face is doing. _He’s so good for me_, Eliot wants to tell her. _He’s the best thing I’ve ever touched and he keeps giving and giving and giving._ _How do I deserve this?_

Because she’s Margo, and because they’ve spent almost a decade learning to read each other’s minds, she gets it. She reaches across the table so he can settle his free hand into hers, let her ground him. Bambi's always been good at that. Small and familiar, her hand is strong in his, gripping tight before she loosens to just trailing her fingers across the inside of his wrist as she looks back down at her maps.

He lasts about a half an hour more, before the wave of _want _catches up with him again. They’re just shy of an hour, but this isn’t just an exercise in surrender for _Quentin_, and the grip of control Eliot has on his own body is fraying rapidly. 

“I think I’m going to have to come back to this in the morning, Bambi,” Eliot says, gently, and Margo nods immediately, as careful and attuned to the time and the circumstances as Eliot is. She’s been more than just an observer to this, she’s been– half running his scene herself, a domino effect of power exchange, picking up what Eliot couldn’t carry. He hadn’t really planned on that, and maybe it's not fair to her, when she doesn’t get the climax or the come down, the warm sweet boy in her bed all night. But then again, Margo’s never exactly been one to cuddle through the night. Still. “Are you going to be alright?”

His voice sounds drippingly tender to his own ears, the way he talks to Q when he’s feeling– she rolls her eyes, he can practically hear her voice in his head saying _You’re not my fucking Daddy, El._ “Listen, Mama’s got a bathtub and a vibrator waiting at her hotel. I’m great, so don’t go feeling guilty about keeping me here late.”

Quentin twitches a little, under the desk, and Eliot could almost laugh, because of course– of course when he’s like this, Margo would be able to push his buttons too. Eliot spends half a second feeling lucky that he was here in the safe-house when Quentin wandered in that first day and not Margo, except– it’s a petty, jealous thought, the nasty side of possessiveness he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in. It’s unfair to Quentin, as well, who hadn’t been wandering through life waiting for someone to push him to his knees, but had actively made a choice to give his heart, his _trust_ to Eliot.

It’s on Eliot, now, to work to deserve it. 

"I'm going to portal home from here, can you lock up the safe house?" Eliot asks, voice strained. God, he's sweating through his shirt, practically shaking with the effort of not getting hard, not just pushing his dick again and again in the soft, sweet stretch of Quentin's mouth. He can only hope that Quentin is far gone enough not to notice that Eliot is losing his composure quickly, struggling to hold on to the facade of detachment.

"Mhm," Margo agrees, straightening her skirt with a twinkle of mischief in her eye. "You enjoy your toy, I'll lock up."

Quentin's face, once the door clicks closed and Eliot draw back to see it, is stained red in a blush. His eyes are glassy and wet, and it takes him a couple seconds to focus on Eliot. Oh, he’s _gone_, just checked out, a sweet little thing completely given over to Eliot’s pleasure. It makes something wild and hot spring through Eliot’s body, the first genuine throb of arousal he’s felt in an hour, since he settled with his cock in the warmth of Quentin’s mouth. 

Carefully, he reaches forward to twine his fingers through the longer hair near Quentin’s temple, cup the back of his head with the other hand and guide him off. Q whines in protest, an unhappy, needy sound, but lets himself be moved, acquiescent with this in a way he only ever is for Eliot, deep in the middle of something heavy. 

Eliot shushes him, soothing, petting his hair once Quentin’s mouth is free and Eliot’s cock has flopped to rest, wet and soft against his open trousers. “Check in with me, little one,” Eliot murmurs, and _Jesus_, he can hear it in his own voice, how _drenched_ it is with affection, with care. Goddamn, he’s lucky Quentin doesn’t want a stone top, because he’d never be able to manage it. “How are you doing?”

Quentin blinks, and it’s like he’s processing Eliot’s words from a great distance. “Good. Green,” he mumbles, the words heavy on his tongue. Then, “Want it.”

Another sharp spike of arousal shoots through Eliot, and almost without thinking he slides his hand forward enough to brush his thumb against Quentin’s lips. Q’s mouth falls open immediately, and Eliot slides his thumb in, brushing against the velvety soft heat of Quentin’s tongue. His little witch, so _fucking_ good, Eliot feels like his skin is on fire with heat as Quentin’s mouth falls shut, eyes fall shut, _sucksucksuck_’ing on Eliot’s finger. 

“Baby,” Eliot coos, the wild feeling of power and affection nearly crushing him as he pets through Quentin’s hair. God, what did he ever do to deserve being given something so precious as Quentin’s trust, his softest, most vulnerable parts? “Want to suck Daddy’s cock for real, now?”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, mumbling around Eliot’s thumb. “Want it.”

“Okay,” Eliot coos, sliding his finger free so he can take himself in hand. He’s hard in seconds, head swimming a little with the rush of blood down between his legs, but the soft little noise of hunger that Quentin makes is worth it. Glassy-eyed and red-mouthed, he’s staring at Eliot’s hand on his dick like he’s never wanted anything more in his whole life. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

Feeding Quentin cock is one of the great joys of Eliot's life.

It won’t last, it can’t, not when Eliot’s been working himself up to the edge for over an hour. But to actually be able to let himself enjoy it, to get his hands in Quentin’s hair and let his hips flex, working shallowly into his mouth– it’s so good. The roll of pleasure is so sweet, it’s like he can feel it building everywhere, in the tips of his fingers and the pebbled peaks of his nipples and the drum-tight weight of his balls. 

“_Fuck_, little one,” Eliot breathes, and oh, Quentin moans, vibrations sparkling up Eliot’s dick. “You– you did so good, sweetheart. Kept me so warm, oh _fuck_, Q, I don’t– I’m–”

Quentin hums in response, pushing forward as far as he can with Eliot’s cock hard and stretching his mouth. It’s not quite to the root, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough, with all the lead up and the way Quentin’s gone sweetly soft and open for him. Orgasm crests in a wave, bright and sharp and almost painful after waiting so long for it. Quentin takes it, as much as he can, but he’s coughing a little when Eliot’s finally back in his body again, aftershocks still pinging around his nerves.

“Hey, hey, easy,” he soothes, reaching forward with concern, but Quentin is already nuzzling into his hand, kissing at his wrist. “You did so good, baby, _so _good for me.”

Quentin smiles, small and pleased, eyes still glassy. He’s nuzzling at Eliot’s wrist, still, like he’s not sure what to do with his mouth now that Eliot’s not in it. Shaking off the glow of orgasm, Eliot tries to assess the situation, petting softly at Q’s hair. Either they need to wrap things up now, here, or Eliot needs to get it together enough to cast a portal and get them home. He wants, suddenly, to spread Q out, strip him bare and kiss all the tender skin on his body, on the insides of his arms, his inner thighs, the soft skin of his lower belly. He wants to wait long enough to get hard again, so he can _fuck_ Q, roll him over onto his belly and draw out all his sweet little sounds.

But that’s not– they’ve been going for an hour and Quentin’s already so far down in his head, drawing it out right now would only risk pushing him further than he can go. He’s hard, Eliot can see his erection straining in the front of his jeans, but he seems unconcerned with it, fully locked in to Eliot’s instructions. Making his mind up as he speaks, Eliot leans forward to press a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head, speak into his hair. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, sweetheart. I’m going to portal us home, and then take care of you. You’re going to have to wait a little bit longer, but I owe you a reward for being so good. If you can’t wait, I’ll get you off here and then we can go home. Okay? Check in.”

“I can wait,” Quentin breathes, kind of muffled where Eliot’s tucked him against his chest, and Eliot grins. So fucking proud.

Q’s having a hard time standing, the mix of legs numb from kneeling on the floor for an hour and the lack of coordination from subspace leaving him fawn-like and stumbling. But that’s fine, Eliot doesn’t mind helping him up, tucking him to sit in Margo’s vacated chair with soft words of encouragement and a flurry of kisses to his face. It makes Quentin giggle, and the fact that he does push Eliot away, however feebly, means he’s starting to come back to himself.

Eliot works quickly on the portal, and Q’s still unsteady on his feet once Eliot gets it done, opening his office door directly into open space of his loft. It’s a perfect excuse for Eliot to scoop him up bridal style, telekinesis carrying the brunt of his weight, but Q buries his nose in Eliot’s neck and holds on. He’s not nearly as checked out as he was, by the time Eliot gets him settled on the bed, and Eliot mourns it a little. It feels like a missed opportunity, not to let Q get off when he’s that far gone, but he’s still attentive and smiling when Eliot settles at his side on the bed, head propped on one hand.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Eliot murmurs, reaching out to brush his thumb against the apple of Q’s cheek. “That was a lot, and you did so well.”

“I wanted it,” Quentin deflects, rolling a little towards Eliot like any space between them is a personal affront. “It was my fantasy, after all.”

Eliot’s itching to ask if it lived up to Q’s imagination, if it was everything he wanted it to be, if he _liked it_. But they’ll check in after, and now Eliot owes him a reward. 

God, it’s been hours since they’ve kissed. Quentin responds eagerly, openly, welcoming when Eliot rolls over on top of him. He’s so fucking responsive, Eliot’s eager little witch, following Eliot’s mouth with a soft whine when Eliot goes to draw back. Laughing a bit, Eliot rub his nose against Q’s, feeling like his heart could break for how in love he is. “Let me,” he breathes, against Quentin’s lips, and Quentin does. 

Q lets him strip them both, clothes tossed with uncharacteristic disregard to the four corners of the room. Quentin’s hard, either again or still, but his cock fits perfectly in Eliot’s hand. He sighs, eyes falling closed, relaxing into the bed like Eliot put this off just so he could give a more elaborate handjob. Smiling a little to himself, since Q can’t see it, Eliot braces up on his knees and goes through the familiar motions of the lube-and-prep spell on himself. He doesn’t use it often, generally finds that the stretch isn’t quite adequate to prepare for his own cock, but Quentin’s is the perfect size for this. Easy to take, even if Eliot so rarely does. Q’s eyes fly open in surprise as Eliot begins to settle down on him, and then his head is rolling back, fingers digging into the blanket on the bed as Eliot settles in.

“That’s it, good,” Eliot soothes, one hand braced on the mattress, the other rubbing Quentin’s quivering stomach as he strains not to just thrust up. 

It’s a long, slow, syrupy sweet ride. Once he’s settled, Eliot gatherers Quentin’s restless hands in his, pinning them to the bed with his weight as he hovers over Q, dropping praise and kisses all over his face. It feels so good, even if Eliot’s not quite hard, to be close like this, the intimacy of it. Quentin’s _inside_ him, and that happens so rarely, Eliot lets himself just enjoy it until Q’s straining and shaking under him.

“Please,” he begs, soft and desperate, eyes squeezed shut. “_Please, please_. I need– please, El, please let me–”

Releasing one hand, Eliot reaches up to brush his thumb on the skin just under Quentin’s eye. Q’s eyes blink open, obeying the wordless command, and Eliot smiles at him. “Come for me, sweet boy.”

Q does, that surprised look Eliot loves so much pinching his brow as his hips snap up against Eliot. He comes with a strangled shout and Eliot rides him through it, taking everything Quentin has to give. 

There’s cleaning spells to get them through the immediate aftermath, and then they curl together so Quentin can come down in Eliot’s arms. They’re going to need to check in soon, and Eliot will have to drag himself up to get them both water, then he should rub his hands over both Quentin’s knees until Quentin pushes him away with a laugh and a foot in the center of Eliot’s chest. They should also maybe shower, but that feels a little too ambitious for Eliot to tackle at the moment, with Quentin pliant and warm in his arms. 

It’s late, and they both need to sleep, but they right now they have the afterglow to share, and that’s as precious as any magic. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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